


Drift Away

by syphrilfox



Series: I Wrote This For Me, But You Can Read It Too [2]
Category: Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, I Wrote This For Me, Slow To Update, i will update the tags as i update this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22405531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syphrilfox/pseuds/syphrilfox
Summary: “Do you recognize the ghosts that came before you?Or am I dead, just like you?”
Series: I Wrote This For Me, But You Can Read It Too [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665190
Kudos: 2





	Drift Away

**Author's Note:**

> I made an OC once.  
> I am mad in love with my OC.  
> I wrote this for me, and I want it posted here.  
> You don't have to read this if you don't want to.  
> I wrote this for me.

It wasn’t the same.

Hugging themself tight, knees drawn to their chest and arms hugging them even tighter wasn’t the same. Telling themself that it was going to be okay wasn’t the same. Rocking back and forth, crushed up in a rotted out tree stump far into the forest wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the feeling of curling up in their mother’s arms, safe and warm and protected from harm. It wasn’t the feeling of listening to their father telling them that things would work out, fending off their fears and insecurities. It wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t the same. They knew better than to do more than whimper and sniff out in the middle of the forest.

They tried not to think about it. They tried to focus on the dirt there were sitting in. It was gritty and wet and smelt the way only dirt smelt when it rained. They tried to listen to the rain that was pattering against the bark of the dead tree, the way it spattered their ankles and hit every leaf on the way down. It was heavy and loud and wet. All they can smell is the blood. Thick and metallic, laced with the acrid smell of gunpowder and something that’s undeniably human innards. All they can hear is the fire. Roaring loud as it eats away at buildings, casting unbearable heat everywhere, devouring everything in its path. All they can see are the people. Some face down, some on their sides, some on their backs. Some of them missing limbs. Some of them nothing more than torn limbs.

All they can see is their mother and father, bodies cold in the mud, unmoving, unblinking, not breathing.

It’s their fault. Of course it’s their fault. It has to be their fault. They hadn’t been there when it had all happened. 

They hadn’t meant for it to be this way. They hadn’t known it was going to happen. They had just been going out to one of the rivers to fish. They had just been going farther inland to sit and practice their fishing. They hadn’t known it was going to happen. They had just wanted to fish, had just wanted to help out, had just wanted their parents to look at them with that smile they adored so much when they came back with a few extra fish.

They wouldn’t be smiling at them anymore. That thought alone was almost enough for them to wail.

They had left earlier in the morning, dragging a pole that was a little too long for them and a relatively small cooler with them from the house. Their mother and father had been there, waving goodbye in the doorway, trusting them to come right back home when the sun touched the top of the sky. They had promised they would, so very eager to be going out with their slightly too long pole. They had run through town, so excited that they were going fishing on their own for once. No mom, no dad. It was just going to be them, on their own, fishing with all their might. Everyone they had passed waved at them as they went. Even the people from that strange place on the other side of the world had waved at them, guns held non-threateningly and smiles making their big scary helmets look a lot less scary.

The forests near the village, a little farther inland, were relatively safe. Their mom and dad had told them it was safer out there, now that ShinRa was here to fight monsters and the bad people who wanted to hurt the village. ShinRa made their village safer. But they didn’t know who ShinRa was, or why so many strange people had come to their village. Their mom and dad never told them who they were, never told them why the island across the big water stopped sending people, never told them why the people with guns and scary helmets came.

But it didn’t matter. They trusted their parents. Their parents were usually right about things. That was just how grown ups were. They were right about things. So they trusted the people with the guns and scary helmets would protect them. With these strange people around, the village and the surrounding forests would be safe. They had nothing to worry about for their first adventure into the forest alone. So they had scampered into the forest, one wheel of the cooler rattling and shaking and doing its darnedest to fall off. It never did. 

Over exposed tree roots, around wide bushes, and through tall grasses they went, the wheel of their cooler complaining the entire time. They couldn’t have been sure how long it was they had been scuttling about until they reached a river, but it certainly felt like a long time. But the river had been a small one, too small for good fish. They knew that, and knew it proudly. Their mom had told them that when they were first learning how to fish. “A river too small holds a fish just as little,” their mom had said as they walked along the bank of the little river. “Eventually a little river joins up with a bigger river.” So, like the other hundred times they’d done it before with their mom and dad, they had followed the little river. They walked and walked and walked some more before they came to a bigger river. A bigger river is a bigger giver. And so they settled down in the dirt on the riverbank.

The cooler had been dropped down on its side and the sinking lure hooks were unhooked from the loops on the rod. The bright little yellow and red bobber plunked into the water and followed the lazy current of the river, the shiny bit of metal on the hook sinking deep into the water. 

They had watched as their bobber floated along with the current, ever so slowly making its way down the river with the little bit of metal dragging along behind it. And the fish don’t normally bite so quickly, but it wasn’t terribly long before they had to sit up and grapple with the slightly too long rod. Their little arms were burning with effort once the fish had been drug ashore, and it was definitely a struggle to get the hook out of the fish’s mouth without getting poked or slapped in the face by a tail. But when they deposited that fish, almost as big as them, into their little cooler, they felt so good. They had felt like they could take on the world. The line and sinking lure were checked for any damage, and as soon as they could they had cast the line again. Fifteen minutes passed it seemed before another fish was biting. Pride shot through them when they had repeated the fight to get the fish on land and put in the cooler. It wasn’t as big as the first, but it was big enough to make them feel good about it. They cast their line for a third time after quickly stretching their arms, and they had settled to wait again.

Lucky as they’d been, fish seemed to stop biting after that. It wasn’t uncommon for fish to swim somewhere else after one had been caught in the area, their father had told them. Sometimes fish would stay in the area, and sometimes they moved. But the life of a fisherman was to know a life of patience, their mother had said. They had to be patient, they had to wait and see if the fish had moved away completely. They would never be able to tell if they just got up and left now. So they leaned back against the now heavy cooler, prepared to wait.

That was what made everything that happened after their fault.

They’d sat and waited, and waited, and waited. The dappled sun was warm, the breeze hadn’t been uncomfortably cool, and the sounds of pleasant nature had been all around them. The fish hadn’t been biting, and no amount of patience in the world meant that a kid would stay on task. And they weren’t anything more than just a kid, only nine and a half years old and still learning so much about life. It had been so comfortable. It had been so peaceful. It had been so painfully easy. They’d let their eyelids sag, had let the sounds of the river and the birds and the bugs lull them. A little bit later their eyes had slid shut and they had drifted off, completely comfortable and safe where they sat.

It was the sound of thunder rumbling overhead is what woke them. They were drowsy and disoriented, and above all confused as to what they had been doing before they fell asleep. The sun had been hidden behind deep, dark storm clouds, and the wind had picked up. Thunder rumbled again, this time with a weird sound to it. But they didn’t think anything about it. It didn’t take a genius to guess that their nap had lasted way longer than they had meant to be out. Reeling in the lure had been harder this time, what with the hook and metal getting caught in a small collection of rocks. They managed to fish it out, and set it to rights safely on the rod just like their mom had taught them. And with the rod taken care of, they had grabbed the handle of their cooler and started their march homewards.

It took a lot longer to head home then it had taken them to head out. Lugging a pair of fish making up more than their bodyweight meant that it was definitely going to be harder. Not to mention the cooler wasn’t necessarily built to be drug through dirt and mud and other uneven surfaces. It hadn’t stopped them, though. No, they had continued through it, hauling a heavy cooler and a slightly too long pole with them as more strange thunder rumbled. Their drowsiness lingered, and it was getting colder out. It had proved to be suitable motivation to keep them marching home.

It was only when they drew closer to the village that they realized something was wrong.

Despite thick, grey storm clouds hiding the sun, light had been spilling towards them through the trees, and the strange thunder had gotten louder and louder, the earth shaking a little bit beneath their feet. Something had started to roll around in their stomach. It wasn’t late enough for lanterns to be turned on, and a storm wasn’t something they turned the lanterns on for anyway. Nervousness had fought in their tummy with curiousness for a little while, but curiosity had won out. Still hauling their cooler and pole, they continued forward, towards their village, towards the light and towards the strange thunder. Yelling and shouts had started to drift their way, and the sound of something clattering almost as loud as the strange thunder joined it. Nervousness grew stronger, and rather hesitantly they had set their pole and cooler down. It’d be better to ditch them if something bad was happening, and it certainly seemed like something bad was happening. They walked a few yards more through the trees, towards the tree line where the light was the strongest, and strange smells had begun to waft their way. It was all really bad smelling, unlike anything they had smelled before in their life. Some of it was meaty, but different to the smell of fish. Some of it was stinky, not unlike skunks that wandered the forests but different all the same. Some of it smells like metal, like the two person fishing boats the grown-ups took into the sea between the beach and the island across the water. Some of it smells smokey and gross and somehow kind of sweet, and they hadn’t been sure if that was a good thing or not at the time.

They had never seen war before in their life.

Fires had burned almost all of the houses and people ran around the roads and alleys, ducking in and out, weaving around, aiming their guns and swords at everyone. They didn’t know what had happened, what had brought about such destruction. The people their mother and father had told them were there to protect them hid in doorways that no longer had doors, popping in and out of the doorways and firing their guns. Further on in the village, where smoke and fire ate at houses, they could see green and grey and lances and rifles. They didn’t know what had been happening. But they were certain it was their fault.

They didn’t know they were running through the blaze until someone grabbed their arm and dragged them into a building. They were pulled behind the person and out of sight. They had started to struggle near immediately.

“No! No! Lemme go!”

Another set of hands grabbed hold of their shoulders and pulled them closer. What for, they had no idea, but they knew it wasn’t anyone they knew. They threw punches and kicks, squirmed and writhed in the other person’s hands. They didn’t stop, didn’t bother trying to listen to what they were trying to say. It hadn’t mattered what they were trying to say. All that mattered was getting away. All that mattered was getting home.

One gunshot in particular was louder than the rest, closer than the rest, and soon after the person who had been standing in the doorway was on the floor. Both them and the person holding them froze, going entirely silent while the person on the ground bled out of their throat. They recovered faster than the person holding them, and after a particularly rough jerk and shove, they leapt over the person on the floor and back into the blaze. Something pecked at the ground behind them a few times while they ran, but it left them alone soon enough. Shouts directed towards them from both sides were ignored. They hadn’t known why they were running while guns were being fired and while fires destroyed houses, but they were still running. They had to go home.

They had dashed around corners and ignored all manners of calls and shouts. Nothing had ever been more important to them than getting home. Not their birthday, not fishing, not even Yule. Nothing could top the feeling of running full speed through a battlefield all the way home, only to find destruction.

Nothing could top it, that is, until they had seen what had awaited them at home.

They had just barely managed to skid to a stop in front of the carnage in front of their house. It was filled with smoke and flames, orange tongues of fire reaching out of the windows and clawing horrendously at the roof. People of all kinds were littered on the street, one of the busiest streets of the village. The people with the scary helmets and guns, people in green and grey with lances, villagers they could barely recognize through dirt and blood. And their parents.

Their mother and father had laid there on the ground, silent and still. They were sleeping. They had to be sleeping. They had to be. They didn’t rouse when they ran over and shook each of them. They hadn’t shifted when they got more frantic in their shaking, nor did they move when they struggled to roll them both over. Both of them had their eyes open, one a striking green and the other a familiar brown. Their eyes were dull and glassy, and the rain that began to fall couldn’t force them to blink. They watched their chests, bloodied with strange wounds that had ripped through their shirts. Neither moved. They had even pressed their ear against their chests, listening for a heartbeat. Nothing.

They hadn’t heard the real thunder start, and they hadn’t noticed when the fires were slowly doused by rain. They hadn’t noticed the shouts of warring people, the retreat of the green and grey people, the chase of the people with the scary helmets, the last few echoes of gunshots. Nothing had mattered then. All that had mattered was kneeling there by their parents, hoping, begging, praying it was some elaborate prank. The blood on them and their unblinking eyes were very good at convincing them that it wasn’t a prank.

They didn’t hear any of the voices, didn’t notice anyone approaching. It wasn’t until a hand found their shoulder that they jumped and looked up. One of the people with the scary helmets was looking down at them. With the fires dying out, the helmet no longer gleamed red. The three red dots on the helmet glowed instead.

“Come on, kid, let’s get you out of here.”

The person in the scary helmet helped to lift them to their feet, hands heaving them up by their under arms. They could barely think, as if there had been a fuzz clouding their head. They walked when a hand pressed against their back, and they had let the person steer them to wherever they wanted them to go. The walk away from where their parents were lying felt wrong. Very wrong. They had tried to look back at them, but the person in the scary helmet had gently turned their head back to face forwards.

“I’m real sorry kid, but they won’t be coming back, no matter how hard you look.”

That had coaxed the tears out of them. They could barely feel it in the rain that still fell from the heavens. They could barely feel the rain falling on them, if they were being honest.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Kirkland…”

“Like the lake, huh? It’s a nice name.”

All they could do in response was nod. Everything had felt numb then, walking with the person with the scary helmet.

“How old are you, Kirkland?”

They didn’t respond this time. The tears seemed to fall harder then. Their mother had asked them that the same morning, when she had been telling them about all the dangers of the real world. Nine and a half was young and easy for bad people to pick on, and that they shouldn’t talk to strangers, no matter what, no matter how nice they were to them.

“Kiddo?”

Kirkland looked up at the person in the scary helmet. In the rain and the dying light of the fires, the helmet had looked even colder and scarier than they had remembered it being that morning. They panicked. Before the person in the scary helmet could do anything, Kirkland was running, ignoring the shout of the person in the scary helmet. Several other people with scary helmets seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Kirkland, being smaller than them, had managed to swerve past them. A couple of them followed them to the tree line at the far end of the village, leading further in land where they had ran out fishing not even hours before all of this. Not even hours before their parents were killed.

The thought had terrified Kirkland even more, and they ran even harder. Tiny legs had carried them fast and far, occasionally slipping and sliding in the mud building up in the rain. Only when their little lungs heaved in pain and only when the people in the scary helmets had given up chasing them did they stop. They found a tree stump, one Kirkland could remember having a picnic at one summer with their family. It was a sturdy stump then, but it was almost entirely rotted out now. That was where they crawled into to hide, protected only a little bit from the rain, and still so exposed to what had happened.

Their village is destroyed.

Their parents are dead.

They have nowhere to go.

Kirkland kept crying, though they knew better than to make sound in the woods. Monsters of all kinds liked to hide in the woods, and some of them liked to hunt in the rain. Kirkland didn’t care. Let them come. Nothing could be worse than what they’ve seen today. Nothing could be worse than losing their parents. If only they hadn’t fallen asleep when they did. If only they had made it back before the fighting had started. If only they hadn’t walked so far into the woods. If only they hadn’t left the village. Maybe they could have saved their village if they’d been there. Maybe they could have stopped the fighting before it started. How, they didn’t know. But it was all their fault. It’s all their fault because they hadn’t been there. The village was destroyed because of them. People were killed because of them. Their parents are dead because of them.

Against their better judgement, Kirkland sobbed.

Their parents are dead because of them.


End file.
